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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232269">Here is Better Than There</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CK_Artille/pseuds/CK_Artille'>CK_Artille</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metal Gear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Loneliness, Medical Procedures, Sad and Happy, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:02:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CK_Artille/pseuds/CK_Artille</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The sniper, Quiet, struggles to accept what she has become.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quiet/Venom Snake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Here is Better Than There</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>I</b>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><p>Dry, so dry, the Afghan desert whisking around her, a needle of pebbles and sand in her hair.</p><p>But at the end, there would be the base, and her cell, and the shower, always available.</p><p>Quiet adjusted her grip on the sniper rifle. She followed the sight across a myriad of magnifications to where the green dot ended: Snake. Her brutal benefactor, a composite of questions himself. They were reconning the large fort, Smasei Laman, in search of a special prisoner. As Snake made his way between the sandbag emplacements, Quiet scanned the ancient honeycomb, vigilant and ready.</p><p>In her throat, the tickle. Always the tickle. The faint feeling of murder, much worse than the report of the gun. Humming eased it. She found a wandering target and opened the comms, breathing her message into the microphone attached to her harness.</p><p>His hushed command came quickly. “Fire.”</p><p>She made quick work of it.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>The chopper sliced air, off in the distance. Pequod coming in, no hurry.</p><p>She knelt amongst the grasses. Nearby, the prisoner cried, relief crossed with frightened pain. He was wounded. The Fulton had not been an option. Quiet did not relish sharing the long ride back to base with him. They always talked, these lost souls, telling her and Snake of their captures, their mistakes, their sorrows and hopes. All the English made the Bilagáana squirm.</p><p>Perhaps Snake would be more interested in his tapes than the prisoner this time. Quiet liked watching him listen to the briefings. His troubled gaze would unfocus, and for those short periods, he would almost seem at peace.</p><p>She knew it was illusory, much like her own peaceful silence. Anything but.</p><p>Pequod swung over them, flattening everything, blaring music.</p><p>As they soared away, back towards the endless ocean blue, Quiet stowed her gun and took her seat. The exhausted prisoner drooped across from her, out cold. No stories this time.</p><p>Quiet smiled softly.</p><p>So did Snake.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>It was night when she gasped herself awake.</p><p>The body didn’t need to breathe. But the dreams tried anyway.</p><p>She’d been back in the lab. They’d called it sick bay, but that was a lie. XOF invested in research, not repairs of people. And she, tied to her bed, had been Subject 6759.</p><p>In the dreams, <em>he</em> always came, sympathies undercut by seething, polite disappointment over her failure in Cyprus. He would lift her bandages, splitting fragile skin, and tug at the tube taped in her mouth to ensure it was firmly planted. “Can’t let you stop breathing, not just yet,” he would say, and tap the life support monitor that beeped, endlessly, beside her head. “You’re still pulling oxygen through those poor, poor lungs.” His footsteps were the beat of her heart, never pausing, unkillable, even so horribly wounded. A smell, the sickly sweet of night flowers, always came with him. It pierced her head, stung in her chest. She was filled with burning petals. Sometimes, mercifully, at this point she would wake. Other times, like tonight, the sweet smothering continued. “We’ll send you back,” he would say, “and this time, you won’t need to shoot to be successful.”</p><p>Then the tape would be ripped off, taking lip and skin, and the tube torn roughly out. Something far worse put in its place.</p><p>Quiet got up and staggered to the shower. The water doused the memories, eased the wretched crawling of the things within her. In the lab, there had been no shower. There hadn’t even been a toilet, at least not at first.</p><p>The Diamond Dogs had provided her with both, plus a cot and ample sunlight, once they’d understood, of course.</p><p>Soaking, she sat striped in moonlight. The thing that called itself her skin played in the pooled water.</p><p>
  <em>Here is better than there.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>II</b>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><p> </p><p> </p><p>Another mission, running faster than the memory of where she needed to be.
</p><p>Bullets zipped past. They tore through air only recently occupied. There was a surrender to this part of it, the transmutable speed of the parasites. Learning to control it had taken some time, broken innumerable bones, left her concussed and depressed. It was the thing that terrified others the most, drove her furthest away.
</p><p>Quiet arrived at her sniping point, settled, unslung.
</p><p>They were in Africa now. A storm threatened, heavy to the east. Her skin rippled in anticipation of the rain. She hoped Snake would not be quick, not today. The dreams had been bad lately. She needed the heavens to open up and rinse her clean.
</p><p>A flicker of movement to the left. Quiet sighted and fired. The wild dog went over limp, asleep from the tranq. It didn’t take long to neutralize the other. Snake found them both and sent them off via Fulton. That Snake rescued so many animals warmed her. A killer who saved.
</p><p>Were she and Snake so different?
</p><p>They thought she wanted to put a bullet in him. When she’d arrived on Mother Base, they’d taken her weapons away, locked them in the armory and dusted off their hands, thinking themselves clever. Ocelot had found her sitting naked in her cell the next day, a rifle across her lap, smug expression on her face. She’d expected to be punished. Instead, he’d just stood there, arms crossed, thoughtful, considering the situation. 
</p><p>Over time, she’d come to respect him as much as she respected Snake. He understood the depth of her skills, even if he did not understand the depth of her pain.
</p><p>A new sniping point came crackling in. Thunder counterpointed it. Quiet flicked the comm to acknowledge and hurtled off, anxious to lose herself in the melee.
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Back at base, the smell of the evening meal was a keener torture than anything of Ocelot’s creation. All her senses, not just her sight, had been overtuned. Tonight, the tang of yoghurt, the rich scent of lamb, and the warmth of rice wound its way down into her cell to bring the past rushing back.
</p><p>The pictures came. Making bread with Nana, kneading and rolling and giggling, a dot of flour on the tip of her nose. Tearing into chow with the mercenaries, trading bread for a banana and comparing the day’s kills. Trying to eat, before they fully understood the extent of the therapy, and choking but not dying. Wishing for dying, while they got the suction. Skull Face’s cruel laugh, heard out in the hallway, when the scientists told him.
</p><p>Quiet rolled over on her belly and buried her face in her arms.
</p><p>A scrape of step made her look up.
</p><p>Ocelot was coming down the stairs. He tended to come at night. Quiet much preferred Snake’s blunt concern to Ocelot’s complex scrutiny. She put her head back down, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
</p><p>He sat on the bench bolted to the wall, knees wide apart, forearms resting on his thighs, gloved hands clasped together. His hunter’s attention pried at her. Every motion, every gesture, would be stripped down, taken apart, analyzed, doubted, cross-checked. She sat up and put her back to him, challenging him to see through the solid mass inside her body to where she kept her secrets. <em>Try,</em> she thought. <em>You will get nothing. I have nothing for you. But don’t send me away. Let me stay.</em>
</p><p>“What’s on your mind tonight, Quiet?” Ocelot asked.
</p><p>His words ignited the itch. The Bilagáana wanted to mate, to infect. The painful swallow reflex, deadened but not gone, threatened. 
</p><p>“The other day, I saw you attempting to communicate to a female soldier,” Ocelot continued. His tone was mild, so very reasonable. “She was on break, smoking at the lifeboats. You used a crude sign language. Are you surprised? I watched it all on the security cam. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
</p><p>Quiet felt violated. It had been the most innocent of attempts to connect. Simple gestures endangered no one. She put her forehead on her knees.
</p><p>“What did you try to tell her?”
</p><p>She turned her head, neck straining against the swallow reflex, and shot an angry look at Ocelot.
</p><p>He raised his eyebrows. “None of my business, that it? Girl stuff? Things a guy like me wouldn’t understand?”
</p><p>Quiet narrowed her eyes, darkness threatening to bloom.
</p><p>He made a disappointed sound. “You’re gonna make me question the other girl, aren’t you?”
</p><p>The black marks flared.
</p><p>“Feeling protective, I see.” He laughed, soft, dangerous. “Don’t worry, Quiet, I won’t hurt her. But I <em>will</em> get it out of her. You can rest assured on that.”
</p><p>Quiet lay back down, shadow still prickling around her eyes. <em>Let this be a lesson to me, </em>she thought.<em> He sees </em>everything<em>.</em>
</p><p>Ocelot wasn’t done. He continued in his reasonable, soothing tone, tugging at her words, her throat, her secrets. “You’re quite the mystery, Quiet. Why do you stay? I know you can get out of that cell. You can go anywhere you want, but you choose to remain here. What’s in it for you?”
</p><p>She wished he would stop talking. She didn’t care if he stayed all night, measuring every dream-breath she took. <i>Just be silent, please, you’re making them frantic…</i>
</p><p>“Are you grateful to Snake, for getting you out of there? Out of Afghanistan? That desert must have been harsh on you, drying you out. Plenty of sun for energy, unless there was a sandstorm. Painful, weren’t they, those sandstorms? None of that here. Just sun and rain. Is this paradise for you?”
</p><p>She tucked her head back down, crossing her wrists at her tormented throat, pressing, pressing. 
</p><p>“What is it? Something hurting? I can’t imagine what they did to you doesn’t hurt sometimes.” The relentless pressure of his words increased. He was terrible tonight. “Snake wants to help you. He brought you back, and I agreed it was a good call. You’ve made some fine contributions to the Diamond Dogs. We appreciate you, Quiet. Let us help.”
</p><p>The night breeze brought another serving of smells down to where they were. Ocelot paused his monologue and sniffed. “Mmmm. Dinner sure was good tonight.”
</p><p>That broke her. The swallow reflex exploded. Unused muscles and tissues raw from the parasites clenched, seized. The bolt of pain that shot from the base of Quiet’s tongue to the root of the unknown viscera filling her body made her sit upright in a flurry of limbs. She yelped, clutching at her throat, teeth bared against yet another failure.
</p><p>Ocelot regarded her for a few seconds longer. Then he sighed in resignation. “I’ll put in a fan.”
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>The jacket Snake used to cover her during the first trip back from Afghanistan hung on a peg in the chopper. Quiet looked at it fondly, remembering.
</p><p>She expected to be shot that day. In the morning, she’d readied herself for it, recalling all the agonies of the burns, the crawling horror of the therapy. A bullet would be nothing. A bullet was but a moment. She’d endured a lifetime of moments in the XOF lab, shuddering under the screaming UV lights while her body tried desperately to die. 
</p><p>A bit of grass poked out of her boot, green, still alive. She picked it off and thought: <em>brother</em>.
</p><p>She had more in common with a plant than the man bleeding in the back of the chopper.
</p><p>Quiet threaded the grass between her fingers. At her most vulnerable, out cold from the box dropped on her that day, Snake had covered her up. She’d awakened half-suffocated, but not so disoriented as to miss the importance of that simple gesture. His respect sealed her lips. <em>Only for a moment,</em> she’d thought. The mission was still hot in her mind, then. But that moment of silence had turned to the next, then another and another, until there were so many accumulated it seemed foolish to ruin all that effort with one poisonous word.
</p><p>Snake grunted, snapping her out of her reverie. He was attempting to thread an IV tube into the port installed in his stump, bagging himself since they carried no medic. Quiet realized his wounds were significant, and got up to help.
</p><p>He waved her back, snapping the connector in with an angry twist and a hiss. Quiet’s eyes followed the fluid flowing from the bag, down the tube, and into his arm. 
</p><p>So thirsty.
</p><p>Her body shook.
</p><p>“We’ll be home, soon, Quiet.” Snake could go from savage to kind in a heartbeat. He held out a canteen with his good hand. “Pour that over yourself. It’s fresh, okay?”
</p><p>Quiet poured, shivering in paralysis as the skin drank every last drop of water.
</p><p>She gave back the canteen. Lingering by the door, she clung to the ribs of the chopper, radiating thoughts at him. Snake stared back, but not so much as to be disrespectful. Satisfied, Quiet sat back down.
</p><p><i>Here is better than there.</i> 
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>III</b>
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p> </p><p>She waited with Snake for the helicopter. No prisoners with them this time. </p><p>It was time for the game. Like most games, it was birthed from an accident: Snake, preoccupied with collecting medicinal plants, had strolled through her line of fire. He’d muttered “Sorry,” and kept on his way. Quiet remembered making a small, annoyed sound.</p><p>A few days later, he did it again. She stowed, combat vigilance making her movements aggressive. Later, in the chopper, his regard had an edge to it she found enjoyable.</p><p>Now, after months of working together, the routine was set. Snake would call Pequod. Quiet would come sliding into the LZ, in an overly athletic expression of power. Snake would amble, grinning, in front of her sights. She’d stow. He’d move to safety; she’d unsling and aim. Then, again, his dark form would black out her view. She’d make a vexed sound; he’d reply with a gritty chuckle. There would be no words, nothing to awaken the parasites. The game was all gazes held far too long for the field, paired with an understanding silence that made her body tingle and burn, in the best of ways. </p><p>This time, he was brazen: he took out his binoculars and <i>click-click-click</i> zoomed in on her. Quiet bathed in the moment. The darkness prickled around her eyes, and in other places, too. </p><p>She did not entirely trust herself to know if all her parts were truly as they had once been. The memory of her old body was dim now. Had she a mirror in her cell, and privacy, she might have checked. Or maybe not. </p><p>The tickle between her legs increased. She knew those parts had come through Cyprus unscathed. The parasites would not have needed to repair them. Still, she was afraid. What if she dared, in the back of the chopper, to unclip her belt and slide her thumbs under the strings of her thong, pulling it down, only to be met with revulsion?</p><p>The thought was unbearable. </p><p>Pequod batted in. His downwash kicked up a pebble. It struck her hard in the cheek. That ended the game for the day.</p><p>In the chopper yet again, silence now thick between them. Quiet squirmed, tingling, unfulfilled, painfully empty.</p><p>Snake listened to his tapes.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Sometimes, Miller would come to the cell to hurl insults. Quiet always knew when he was on the way; the scrape of his crutch erased any stealth he might once have harbored. By the time he struggled down the stairs, she would be safe under the shower, the water on full blast. She liked to imagine his words as dud ordinance, stacking up against the bars of the cell.</p><p>Ocelot, ever the polite custodian, would arrive within an hour or two. He’d drawl out an apology to sweep away all his colleague’s piled cruelties. Then he would stand at the bars and observe. He’d stopped asking questions long ago. Eventually, he would grow bored, and as he made to leave, he’d slap the control panel on the wall at the foot of the stairs. Music would blare out of hidden speakers, filling the cell with punishing sound.</p><p>Quiet would lie in the sun and be like her brother, the grass. It was just music. It only bothered her when the lyrics were in English. Ocelot hadn’t figured that out yet.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Sick bay, this time a real one, not the sham of the XOF lab.</p><p>Ocelot had suggested they bring in a grow light from the agriculture platform to help her heal. It shined on her now, fueling her cells, if that’s what they even were any more.</p><p>He’d brought a little boy to visit. Around the boy’s neck was the charm she’d risked herself for. The little one spoke to her in a musical language, words unknowable, shining gratitude in his eyes clear and pure. Quiet offered him her hand and he took it, small fingers squeezing thanks. Ocelot, proctoring, gave a nod of approval.</p><p>The door banged open. Miller hitched in. “What’s this kid doing in here?”</p><p>“Kaz —”</p><p>“She could be contagious! Who knows what those burn wounds released?” He noticed Quiet’s extended arm, her open palm. “What was she doing?”</p><p>Ocelot moved to stand between the child and Miller, guiding the boy behind him with one hand. “The boy wanted to see her. He’s grateful for what she did.”</p><p>“What she did.” Miller’s sunglasses flashed cold under the UV. “She could have been the one to spring that chlorine leak. Set up the whole thing, make herself look good in our eyes. Wouldn’t be the first time a spy engineered such a situation. She knows how fast she heals.”</p><p>“Kaz, give it a rest.”</p><p>“No, Ocelot, you give it a rest! I’m sick of my orders being undermined here. That boy has a job and should be working right now, not wandering around getting to do whatever he pleases. And she —” he gestured at Quiet with his crutch, “should be in iso, lock down, or better yet, bagged and tagged!”</p><p>Quiet, throat-bound by all the words, hummed to relieve the impossible itch.</p><p>The men, focused on each other, didn’t hear her. The little boy did. He turned, expression twisted with fear and confusion. She felt his inner conflict. In Africa, he’d known the rules: fight, shoot. Here, things weren’t so simple. It would be so much easier to go back to the savannah and all its simple murdering, just like it would be so easy for Quiet to speak, to tell Miller and Ocelot to <i>just stop arguing, please</i> — and set the world back to rights, the way evil wanted.</p><p>She swallowed, eyes watering from the spasm, and levered herself up on one arm. The unhealed burns cracked and stretched, their pain overwhelming the sensation of the churning Bilagáana. With her eyes, she called to the frightened boy. He came to the bedside, tentative, aware now from Miller’s tone that she was considered a terrible threat. She took the boy’s hand yet again and tried to fill him with the peace that came to her in the moment before a shot.</p><p>Behind him, Miller and Ocelot kept at it, two angry dogs. </p><p>Quiet tried. The boy tilted his head. Could he understand?</p><p>
  <i>Even with this, here is better than there.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>IV</b>
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every stab of the knife was revenge for what had been taken from her.</p><p><i>Food.</i> The knife plunged into the soldier’s guts; she felt organs pop inside.</p><p><i>Dignity.</i> This was an ear, ripped off with her teeth. </p><p><i>Words. </i>A sliced throat, blade catching on tendons, then tearing free.</p><p><i>Love.</i> A dozen strikes to what all men were born with, the thing used as a weapon all too often.</p><p>And even then, she wasn’t finished. Rage boiled out of her as her body soaked in moisture from her blood-drenched clothes. The men in the burning guard house scurried, same as rats in the XOF labs, same as she had once done, desperately trying to escape her cruel keepers. Except this time, she was the keeper, and her cruelty would be unescapable.</p><p>When it was done, she would let the flames cleanse her, as well.</p><p>Outside, a gun chattered. Who had she missed? Quiet felt flames lick at her face and hoped it wouldn’t take long. Surely, it would not take longer than Cyprus, and that had felt like an eternity.</p><p>Water crashed through the burning roof, thousands of gallons. </p><p>Then she knew: Snake had come.</p><p>Ocelot, during one of his unstoppable night monologues, had said something once which struck her. “We’re all doing our best, Quiet. You, me, Snake… even Miller. Trying to make our way. Trying to find the things we’ve lost, or forgot. There’ll be times in your life when you remember what you've forgotten. When that happens, you’ll have a choice to make: stay in the past, or or move on.”</p><p>Quiet shot the last remaining soldier and emerged, steaming, to greet Snake. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>A bloody Snake held out his hand, satisfied attention fixed on her. His focus was so singular, so absolute, he didn’t notice the final remaining tank training its gun on them.</p><p>Quiet did. She passed up his offered hand to snatch the rocket launcher. She was not fast enough. She and the tank fired at the same time. The rounds passed within millimeters of each other, arriving on target simultaneously. The concussion blew her into darkness. </p><p>The itch brought her back. English. Her name. Snake’s voice, heartbroken. </p><p>Weakly, she gestured. <i>I am still with you.</i></p><p>She felt herself gathered up, carefully lifted. Heard him say, “Don’t you dry up on me,” and if she hadn’t been so wounded, still half-bound in darkness, she might have spoken. </p><p>The wicked sting of the sandstorm fell upon them.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>The body, smothered by the sandstorm, kept trying to breathe.</p><p>Quiet was dimly aware of the convulsions. She felt herself striking out, felt hands grabbing at her arms. Was this XOF, handlers pinning her so the old man could come with his needles, injecting that terrible life into her ruined self? No, these hands were large but gentle, not the firm, clinical grips of the researchers. </p><p>Her lungs tried to pull, the strength of the spasm drumming her heels. Someone slid arms beneath her armpits and began to drag her. She heard his exhausted breathing in her ear and knew him: Snake. </p><p>Time scoured by. She dreamed Snake was embracing her, except this time, it went farther than the blissful day in the rain. Safe in his strong arms, she tried to turn, but couldn’t. She was no longer grass, she’d become stone. Her senses, unlike her flesh, were on fire: she felt his body at rest behind hers, tasted blood and dirt, and heard, not so far off, the creaking of heavy materiel on the move. Snake’s arms tightened, and she eased, sinking back into safety, until a blast of gunfire drove her back to consciousness. She waited for the pain. None came. The bullets had not been for them. </p><p>They lay unmoving. The mechanical hand was gentle against her cheek, but still, so terribly still. Quiet knew danger lurked within inches.</p><p>Boot steps crunched away. Behind her, Snake went slack with relief. Quiet’s awareness, slippery in the haze of injury, started to slide back into the abyss. She was going to fall. Her mind sensed something almost within reach, wriggling, a rope. If she could only just grab it, she could save herself. She could save him.</p><p>He would not let her. She fought, sucking air into her useless lungs, throat whistling. The world faded.</p><p>She heard a grunt. Voices far off, drifting on the wind: Russian. The rumble of the column spooling up to move off, fading into the whine of the storm.</p><p>Snake went limp, pulling her down with him. His good arm lay heavy over her body. With a great sense of peace, Quiet drifted away, thinking they were sleeping.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——————————————————————</p>
</div><p> </p><p>The body, unwilling to die, did not.</p><p>Quiet woke. Confused, gummy, she crawled out from under Snake’s arm and tried to make sense of things. There had been a battle. They were in the desert. The sandstorm was still swirling. Snake lay on his side, his breathing dangerously shallow.</p><p>She found his canteen and shook it. Water dinged at the bottom. She poured what little remained over her chest, felt her skin flare with life. Her mind cleared.</p><p>A cobra lay crushed nearby. Snake’s good arm was swollen. Quiet’s sensitive nose found the bitter scent of venom coming from it. Now, she understood her dream, and kneeling over her friend, mourned in the heaviest silence she’d ever borne.</p><p>Snake’s eye fluttered open. </p><p>Shocked, she stared at him. There was recognition in his dull gaze. He tried to speak; she shushed him. Maybe there was still time. Using a belt, she made a crude tourniquet, tightening it down as best she could. He might lose this arm, too, but at least he would still be alive.</p><p>Pequod broke in over the comms, demanding copy.</p><p>Quiet tried. Navajo had never sounded so alien. There was nothing in it that could help. </p><p>Hopelessness howled in her as she listened to Pequod’s desperate requests, growing ever fainter as he fought the storm. <i>Leaving, he’s leaving, what do I do?</i></p><p>Her mind filled with images: the men of XOF, cold, clinical expressions while she choked against the relentless ventilator; Skull Face, pretending there was fraternity in their burns, infecting her with the world-ender; Miller, all hissing paranoia, yet still keeping the water turned on in her cell; Ocelot, leaning against the bars in the moonlight, counseling on decisions. </p><p>And Snake, dying at her feet.</p><p>She decided.</p><p><i>No matter what,</i> Quiet thought, <i>here would always be better than there.</i></p><p>Bilagáana firing bright, she took a breath and spoke.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In these weird quarantine times, I found myself co-playing MGS TPP for the first time in 2020. The story brought me tons of inspiration. Thanks all for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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